All matter of stuff filed away in un-Dewey-like piles. Time to let go.
There are few female crime photographs in the big city. H**l, anywhere. Guess editors think we’ll faint, our sensibilities just aren’t built for the gruesome, ghoulish, grisly. I assisted the police until an unfortunate falling out over who held rights to my output.
So, now I do the night beat for the Tristate Tribune, and Channel XYZ 666. Police scanners set to mayhem. Never takes long for the action to start. “1066 at Tarzan and Vine” zings across the room. Al is already running out the door. Since he is no longer 40 pounds over weight and out of shape, he likes to leap over his desk and sprint to the exit. I hear him thundering down the six flights of stairs.
I groan, grab my equipment, and follow in the elevator. At least my Bugatti Veyron is faster than his rusty Pinto. I throw Herbert into gear and slash out of the parking garage. “Eat my million dollar dust,” I yell, lapping Al twice.
Tarzan and Vine: a film noir neighbourhood. Gritty black and white images of bars, strip joints, pimps and pushers. Washed in neon’s zap, faded as daytime. As I never shoot in colour, my kinda place. Berretta and Kandinsky, the typical partners in crime, watched my flash. Blinded, as usual, they couldn’t see the obvious if it kneed them in their manhoods. Gerry Grissom, of Forensics, was brighter than the halogen lights illuminating the scene.
“Hey” I shouted to a member of the Sinister Sisterhood, “Find anything?” By the time Al’s panting pinto screeched up, I had all the shots I needed. Before the early morning edition piled up on street corners and applified across mobile devices, the techs would match my pix to his drivel.
“VICTORIOUS VICIOUS VAMPIRE,” in the lurid font Tri-trib techs and editors thought of as tabloid sexy, screamed. “Yah, right” I thought, “And Wolfman lives at the Waterfront Waldorf.” (Actually, he lived in a gated community, Wormwood Willows, in the exurbs; I never let a little fiction stand in the way of my fact.) Al was playing cutesy; two small neck wounds, spaced fang-distance apart, and a body drained of blood didn’t prove a vampire. Suggested, maybe, but it wasn’t the only way to view the crime scene. Al probably quoted Beretta for that gem of a headline.
My photos, in stark patches of light and dark, were mesmerizing. Tantalizing shadows drifted past. A miasma of fog blurred the detectives’ faces. When Kandinsky finished this crate of once illegal cigars, he’d order a shipping container of North Korean stogies. Crime scene tape creating a fence around the sidewalk “grave site.” A darker shadow emerging from the background blackness. My great-uncle, Jackman Van Helsing, listened to police scanners, too.
© phylor August 2015